Without direction from the 
             soon-setting Sun, drawn not by the pull
         of the Moon, it flows past murky shadows 
 shifting into place, and passes by the sweep of trees. 
          The river remains constant. 
      Showing itself, ripples and bubbles, only 
  when convenient. Beneath the frozen surface, 
                 a flurry of activity within each body of water 
                 it passes through. 
                 Neither transient or untenable
          it knows not whether it will end up in the sea, 
   or be channelled through tributaries 
                to a gentle stream, sparkling lake, or 
 come to rest in a stagnant swamp, eventually 
                     seeping into the aquifer, or evaporating 
        and ending up as a puddle in a far-away city.
                    The cycle begins again.
                     Wanderlust. 
              The river does not know the power it contains, 
      yet continues to move. 
      There is no silence.
          The stillness is never complete as we, 
 minute by day, year over year, seek purpose. 
     And balance. Under this Solstice, 
               the Sun shedding it’s grace for such little time, 
              traversing through to darker hours, as we are. 
         Or as we can, 
         in this semi-frozen state, craving comfort 
      which comes from removing ourselves 
 from the elements. 
                        Man-made darkness, the shelter 
               in which we hide, or rest, or plot how 
           we will better face the day, and the year ahead. 
 Each of us is searching, or knowing, or 
                                     finding our ocean. 
                                     Neither temporary 
     or transient. A natural rhythm, the planets revolving 
 as they should, each cycle, each pattern, 
         each evolution.

© 2016 j.g. lewis